


The Bookmobile and the Water Witch

by adabsolutely



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adabsolutely/pseuds/adabsolutely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Road trip to visit Duncan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bookmobile and the Water Witch

“The Bookmobile and the Water Witch”

***** _wind_ ***** Duncan MacLeod’s voice, even over his cell phone, still lures me into his sphere of adventure, turmoil, and excitement. A world antipathetic to a long, peaceful life. I really am old enough to know better, but I keep listening.

“Can you do without Internet access?” He challenges me.

“I could bring lots of books.” Toying with his invitation. So easy to slide back into the Highlander’s life. Too easy.

“That reminds me, do you have any books on making windmills? Modern ones.”

“Certainly,” I reply. A book for everything worth knowing about, plus all the ones full of rot.

“Of course you do, what was I thinking.” His voice wraps around me. “Oh, and ask Joe to bring his water rods.”

“Water rods?” Hm, something new about Joe.

“He’ll know.” And Mac knows I love a puzzle.

***** _earth_ ***** On both days of our road trip Joe and I stop the Jeep every few hours to stretch. Sometimes Joe moves to the backseat with his guitar and plays a few songs, effectively curing our road hypnosis. We drive east from Seacouver across Washington state then follow along the Snake River between Oregon and Idaho south toward the Nevada border. Lots of nothing, and more nothing. Out of the Pacific Northwest rainforest, through the Cascades east to the Great Basin desert. We watch the climate and culture change from roads filled with SUVs and bicycles to pickup trucks and horses. From boys dressed in baggy shorts slung half way down their buttocks, to girls wearing blue jeans tight across the saddle and flared over their boots. And the air too, from moist fir and sea scented, to dry sage and alkaline dust. I keep looking for trees, but here grass land, volcanic rock formations, and sage brush rule. Ye gods! I imagine the Horsemen riding over the next hill.

***** _brick_ ***** Lining the streets of Antelope Creek are brick buildings circa 1890, a few Victorian era houses, and manufactured homes trucked over from Portland during the last twenty years. Population: less than two thousand. Joe is delighted with the brick and mortar tavern he’s signed on to play during our stay. The proprietors greet him with enthusiasm.

Smiles and the turning heads of town folk passing by on the street as we unload his equipment suggest that word of the Bluesman’s visit has traveled about the small town. A rare treat beyond their usual diet of homegrown country and rock bands.

Joe declines to accompany me the next twenty miles to MacLeod’s place. “I plan on sleeping for the next ten hours. You can bring Mac around here for my first show.”

***** _metal_ ***** As always, Mac’s directions are exacting. I drive straight to the quarry, a crescent-shaped wall of rock, excavated out of the west side of an eight hundred foot hill. Rusting equipment covers the staging ground of the quarry, including mining and farming machinery hulks as well as other intriguing contraptions that I can’t identify.

Driving the dirt road slowly — while scanning the amazing variety and quantity of junk — I follow the loop to the center where an Airstream trailer perches along side a wide, shallow pond. On the opposite bank of the pond is a small irrigated field with a couple horses and pine-pole stable. The Highlander’s quickening pings at my flight response, but I stamp the impulse down firmly and climb out of the Jeep.

His buzz emanates from an area of iron scrap that has been cut and graded into three piles. A welding shield hides his face briefly before he turns off the torch and removes the safety mask, revealing sweat spiked hair.

“Methos! You made it,” he calls out to me. My foot falls crunch on the rocky surface.

Once I step into his reach, Mac grasps my shoulder and squeezes, inviting a dusty hug, which I accept. It’s not like I’ve never been dusty before. A brotherly hug, then he bristles my cheek with his, and then the bastard breaths in my ear. I laugh, trying to hide the shiver this sends through me and start to back away, but he holds onto me a little longer as if taming me.

Finally he frees me and spreads his hand to encompass the quarry. “What do you think of my inheritance?”

“Interesting. I’m thinking your friend was fixated on all things iron.”

“Aye. John was a junk collector. He’d grown up with very little, so he always had a hard time letting go. I’ve planned on cleaning the quarry up ever since he left it to me. Once I even hired people to do the work, but they flaked out. Then one day I was looking for something to do. So here I am.”

I smile at him and impulsively tell him, “You look good — despite the dust!”

For this I receive a rare laugh. “Thanks, I guess.” He sighs and reminds me, “You know how tightly wound I was the last few months in Seacouver. Headhunters popping up like dandelions.”

I nod with vigor. “Oh, yes, I remember.”

“The Basin calms the spirit — as you would say. I’ve relaxed. It’s peaceful. Well, except when I run the generator.”

“Windmill books,” I extrapolate from his requested cargo.

“Exactly. I could make use of the afternoon wind, and not be dependent on that noisy diesel generator to charge the Airstream’s batteries.”

“So you plan on staying here?” I fish.

“Just for the summer this time, but once I’ve recycled all John’s treasures, it will make a good bolt hole.” I nod in agreement as I imagine the setting without the bone yard look.

“You should take pictures of it now,” I suggest.

He leads me to his thirty-foot trailer and I climb the steel mesh steps to MacLeod’s abode as he holds the aluminum door open for me. It’s always fascinating walking into a world this young immortal’s created for himself. Will it be crammed with fine antiques and art? Doesn’t seem likely out here in the big empty. I’m expecting more of a spare, utilitarian place to eat and rest his head. And I step up into an interior decorated in classic junkyard art, including a knight and horse welded of scrap iron, a coat rack made of horse shoes, and a desert bleached antelope skull gracing the wall. Somehow it’s perfect. I laugh, delighted to see it.

He offers me whisky, which I decline. “I’m supposed to drive you back to town for Joe’s first set.”

Mac smiles at the prospect. “OK.” So instead he digs out a couple beers from the compact frig. “I’d offer you water, but my drinking tank is close to empty and the well water tastes strong of sulfur. All it’s good for is showering.” We sit together on a small leather couch, leaning against the arm rests to face each other while we converse.

“Ah! Joe’s water rods,” I guess.

“Bright boy! I thought maybe Joe could help me find the best spot to drive a lateral pipe into the rock. Replace the ground well.”

“Is the water in the pond fresh?’

He nods. “That’s what gives me hope, I think the pond must be spring fed from the hill, otherwise it would be dry this time of year. Right now I haul in drinking water and my horses drink from the pond. Even they won’t touch the well water.”

“I noticed the horses.” My voice catches.

“You remember how to ride?” I see a devilish glint in his eyes. I’ll bet he knows the last person I rode with was Kronos, a few days before he lost his head to MacLeod in Bordeaux.

“All I brought are these runners and my hiking boots.” Never call me slow to change a prickly subject.

“Have to take the poor city boy to the farm store to buy him some riding boots.”

I really want to wipe that shit-eating grin from his face, but his teasing smacks, befuddles, and dazzles old brain cells. Joy. Joy that makes a long life possible.

***** _leather_ ***** Mac insists the pair of tawny leather boots with diamond stitching is what I need. The way he’s watching me stroll the hardwood floor of Kelley’s Farm and Feed tempts me to buy them, though my forebrain insists that the darker brown with the paisley stitching will better conceal a multitude of sins that a cowboy might step into.

***** _fire_ ***** Joe’s new venue, the Antelope Creek Tavern has a low, but spacious stage and a great checkered dance floor. Mac was right — I need these boots. We dance with every able-bodied woman in the tavern, while Joe steals all their hearts, wrapping them in his Blues. Moving my body to a beat frees a bit of the oldest me, just a small bit. I let him dance. Occasionally I allow a glance at MacLeod in his fitted western shirt with pearly snaps and tight black jeans.

At 2:00 am Joe plays his last song, “Stand By Me.” I’m slow dancing with a very young, beautiful Shoshone woman. The top of her head barely reaches my collar bone. She has a smile men walk across deserts to see. She asks me about Joe, so I tell her about his musical roots, that he often plays in Paris, that he learned to play banjo before the guitar, about Vietnam and how his music saved him. Not telling her about the Watchers means I’ve really only spoken of the for-the-public-view man. We all wear our secret masks.

***** _liquor_ ***** MacLeod and I help pack up Joe’s gear, then we check out his room upstairs and imbibe a few beverages. The apartment reminds me of Mac’s loft in Seacouver.

Joe tells us, “The view out that back window is great. There’s a small park with swings and picnic tables. Mothers with kids, teenagers smoking, geezers loafing.”

“Where do you fit into that?” MacLeod asks, grinning.

“I don’t.” Joe’s reply is firm, yet he’s suppressing a smile at the teasing. “But there might be a song in it. You were right about the vibe here, Mac. Good place to find songs.”

“Or for songs to find you,” I suggest. There is a lot of music in Joe when he can slow down and let it catch up with him.

The apartment is large enough to easily accommodate a couple of inebriants, so we crash on Joe’s sofas.

***** _water_ ***** Joe holds the brass rods the way a rider grasps reigns, secure but with play in them so they can move. It’s not an easy thing for a man walking on plastic legs. Mac stands close so that Joe could steady himself on his shoulder, if necessary. He walks along the base of the quarry wall, hands extended holding the witching rods, searching for that tug of a vein of water. I take point, kicking loose stones out of the way.

“My grandfather taught me with willow branches, but the brass works best for me,” Joe explained as we made our way slowly around the quarry.

“I’ve never been able to feel it,” MacLeod complained.

“Granddad said either you did, or you didn’t feel it. So I guess ‘taught’ wasn’t the right word. Checked me out, would be more accurate.”

I wonder if I should mention being adept at water dowsing myself, but keep quiet, except for the occasional stone needing kicking.

About three quarters of the way around the quarry wall, the rods Joe holds dip and cross. He pauses, we mark the spot with stones and then he finishes the remainder of the route. At the end of the quarry he reverses direction and returns to the spot confirming his finding.

***** _charcoal_ ***** Rib eye steaks sizzle on a hibachi grill tended by MacLeod. Joe and I lounge in webbed deck chairs offering unrequested advice to the chef. I scoop up a flat stone and lob it across the pond. It skips three times over the surface before sinking.

Joe asks Mac, “How many loads of scrap metal have you hauled away so far?” He points to the old half-ton International parked next to the cut scrap piles.

“Twenty maybe. I figure I’ll be hauling all summer. I make enough selling the scrap to buy fuel for the truck and my lunch on days I haul. If diesel was cheaper it would almost be profitable.”

I stare across the pond at all the junk. “What was John like?”

“A character. Nice guy. Kinda crazy. I bought some important antiques from him at reasonable prices. Tessa loved him. He always made her laugh. He lived to be 94 or 95. He couldn’t remember for sure how old. He’d lied at some point about his age to get a job, confused him later.”

“I know the problem.”

Mac laughs, but Joe just smiles and shakes his head at me. I think Joseph has doubts of my veracity.

I’m burning this memory into my brain: three of us here, having a barbeque in front of Mac’s Airstream, staring at ripples on the pond, listening to a flock of geese headed toward Malheur Wildlife Refuge. I want to hold onto this day for a thousand years.

***** _horses_ ***** Mac introduces me to his mount Rake the buckskin and to Pet the Appaloosa that I’m to ride. She’s white with a brown rump speckled with white spots. Mac explains that Pet is not short for Petunia or any other cute name, but was an earned descriptive, petulance.

“Oh, joy.”

“Don’t worry, she’s four now and beyond most of the attitude. At least she’s solid, not afraid of gum wrappers or squirrels, though still on the stubborn side. I picked her out because I wanted to see you on her.”

There were so many things I could reply to that — that I say nothing. I smile, stare at the ground; kick a rock with my new boots. I think they may be the best boots I’ve ever worn.

Mac tries not to smirk, but fails. What’s the brat thinking?

Dressed in a denim work shirt I’ve seen him wear many times, worn jeans, and riding boots that have traveled many miles I watch him as he ties his sword and canteen to the saddle. He looks like he belongs here, sitting on a buckskin in the Great Basin. Maybe he does. Ah, yes, another one of those characteristics that allows an immortal a long life: being able to fit in most anywhere and belong. Goes with my other favorite: being easily amused.

I’m riding beside Duncan. I finger the leather reins, and inhale the ancient familiar scents. Trying to regulate my breathing here. Calm exterior. OK. It’s OK. He’s smirking again.

“What was it like riding with Kronos?” Right on time.

“Imagine riding into battle naked.”

“That much fun?”

I let him see the weary me. “I thought so at the time.”

We ride up to Hawk Ridge and along the hilltop trail. I’m glad of the Stetson hat Mac lent me, providing protection from the sun. After a quarter mile I begin to wish I’d left the saddle off as I discover Pet is really quite dependable, or at least as dependable as any non draft horse. Would be fun showing MacLeod how I once rode, or at least that prehistoric version of me.

We find the petroglyphs that were our destination, and climb down to contemplate the chiseled and painted rock figures, including running antelope, hunters with bows, flying arrows, and warriors with raised spears. We debate the possible meanings. I argue toward crossroads signpost and Mac advocates a story recounted.

“I suppose we may both be right,” Mac suggests, “The glyphs being a landmark where this event once occurred.”

I nod. “Yes, ‘meet me on the ridge where my father’s father killed an antelope and met his enemy’.”

Further on down the ridge we ride through an area narrow and open enough that we can see across the land in all directions. We dismount and tie the horses’ reins to a juniper.

Mac finds the perfect spot to sit on the grass covered ground, one leg extended and the other flexed for balance. He sighs in appreciation of the view, desert interrupted here and there by clusters of round irrigated fields. I watch him longer than appropriate by the standards of the times, but don’t really give a damn.

I sit down, cross legged behind him, back to back, I lean into my friend for balance and close my eyes. The moment is too perfect. I want to say something annoying to break the spell, because I am an old man of another time and know how to cry.

My friend reads people. With each year he gets better at it. By the time he is my age....

“Methos?”

“Hm?”

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small square packet and slips it into my hand. “Here.” It takes me longer than it should to recognize it as a condom. I laugh at myself. As I was saying, I am old and easily amused. I twist around to see his face.

“No bareback?” I ask.

“No.” Mac flashes me a fake shocked look that quickly morphs into a broad smile.

“OK.” I slip the packet into my own shirt pocket then scramble around in front of him and bowl him over. As his back meets the grass I fall with him claiming his mouth. I kiss him soundly, appreciative of his wide lips. Soon I roll us to our sides, since depriving him of air is not my goal.

Snaps are wonderful things, praise be to the soul of their inventor. The hair on Mac’s chest is quickly revealed to my touch. I rub a palm through the curly hair and cradle his head on my other arm. We sit up briefly, just enough to discard our shirts.

Between nips at my jaw, Mac tells me, “We don’t — do this — often — enough.”

“What? Once a year isn’t enough for you, Mac? I’ve had wives who —.” His mouth closes over mine, silencing my irreverence, thank you, Duncan.

Ridiculous how safe I feel intertwined with this powerful swordsman. I’d say he has a healing touch, if I were prone to such new age babble.

Scrambling down to his boots I tug them off his feet then give each boot a toss over my shoulder. He laughs. I begin to remove my own, but he stops me with his hands and yanks my new boots off for me, copying the casual disposal.

We stand and embrace here on the ridge top. My view over his shoulder is east toward Idaho and his must be west into Oregon. I unbutton his Levis and crouch down to slide them off him. It surprises me for a moment that he is not wearing underwear, but I imagine his motive is limited laundry water not seduction. Wonderful either way. I puff cool air on his hard cock, he shivers and growls approval.

My jeans are the only barrier between us now and Mac grips at my hair trying to get me to stand back up, I’m sure with removing them in mind, but I kinda want to remain in the vicinity of his need a bit longer. I have an advantage in my position. A little suction, a lot of control.

Mac’s impatient tugging forces me to stand, finally. He fumbles with the foppish horseshoe belt that I bought on a whim at the same time as my boots. Considering the amount of trouble he seems to be having with it, I doubt that it will become a long term item in my wardrobe, though at the moment it’s providing valuable comic relief as he attempts to open it. A little laughter with your sex is a good thing. Eventually, he succeeds at opening it and stripping off my jeans.

“What did you do with the condom?”

“Oops!” I break away to grab up my shirt from the ground, and find the packet still in my pocket.

Grabbing it away from me, he says, “Let me.” He rips it open, and with a great deal of finesse unrolls the lubricated condom over my cock. I hold my breath till he finishes fitting me, then I gasp for air.

We embrace again, holding each other long enough for the fire to die down to a manageable level. Mac guides me to a sitting position on the grass. I think he may have put some thought into this, as he kneels down straddling my lap and begins to lower himself on me. Oh my. Word.

I need my palms on the ground, leaning back slightly to hold us in this rather exacting position. There is nothing, in my not so humble opinion, as bloody wonderful as having sex in the open air. Every little breeze stimulates all the fine hairs on your body, excitement of the forbidden feeds your passion and you experience a connection to the earth as well as your lover.

He moves slowly on me. Hard as the desert, soft as a sigh. Nature holds us, but falls away and disappears. Thought gone. Wind. Rock. Quake....  
A gentle breeze caressing my face. Duncan’s breath moist, against my jaw. Live forever. Perfectly relaxed. My back on the ground. How did...? Mac smiles down at me.

“Stay the summer.”

“Sure.” And I mean it.

Not forever, but a summer.

Rake and Pet neigh impatiently, bringing us back to the earthly plane. We help each other dress by tossing clothes and boots to each other. He makes me feel young. I should be more careful, sometimes a summer leads to a thousand years.


End file.
